


For Clark

by ren_makoto



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29817924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: "Clark," he says at last, his voice like aged leather and smoke. "I hate goodbyes. I think you must, too. They're messy."Clark and Bruce have a lot to say to each other. Better late than never.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	For Clark

Clark clears away the cobwebs and dust, leaving a handprint shaped smear like a drab rainbow over all the buttons and dials. 

He still remembers how to use it.

"What do you want? A medal?" Bruce doesn't sneer at his side. Doesn't cough on an inhale. Doesn't wave away his concern.

Clark loosens his black tie; removes his black jacket, and tosses it to the Cave's stone floor. And then he sits down in Batman's chair. It's more than a little dusty, but Clark never intends to wear this suit again. 

It doesn't matter.

He pushes a few buttons, and the giant central screen flares to life, bright like a sunrise in the dark space. A small camera blinks in the bottom right corner, makes a clicking sound, and then his own face is displayed on screen, a huge moving snapshot that fills his vision. 

It's the first time he's seen himself all day, and the picture is no surprise: he looks like he feels. His eyes are bloodshot, his brows are low in a frown. If he put on his glasses, he could hide most of the strain on his face, but he left them in Metropolis. 

"I should have brought them," he mutters, and a red icon flashes on screen, followed by the words RECORDING SAMPLE.

"I SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT THEM," the audio plays back at him, somewhat distorted and mechanical. The waveform is a wavering window that pops up and slides to the side. Beneath it, his words are translated into Kryptonian. 

"KENT, CLARK," says the computer. "FILE SAVED IN FOLDER SUPERMAN, SUBFOLDER AUDIO SAMPLES."

Clark's eyes are wide as he considers all this. "Really, Bruce? This is overkill," Clark says.

"THIS IS OVERKILL," the computer plays back. The waveform wavers and moves to the side. Kryptonian types across the screen. 

"FILE SAVED IN FOLDER SUPERMAN, SUBFOLDER AUDIO SAMPLES."

Clark stops talking.

He sits still and waits for the computer to finish doing whatever it is Batman programmed it to do. He endures the scrutiny of the computer with the same patience he gave to Batman about invasion of privacy when he first learned of the extent of his research— 

"Necessary," Batman replies in his memory.

And overstepping boundaries with his surveillance— 

_ "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, _ Superman?" Batman says. So long ago. A lifetime ago.

Several diagrams dance over Clark's image, revealing his strengths, weaknesses, and allegiances. Next, video clips appear of Superman zooming into burning buildings to rescue children; punching villains unconscious; and floating above the world like a god come down from Olympus, bare sunlight spilling around his shoulders. There is even a ridiculous one of him saving a cat from a tree, which Batman must have found hilarious. Clark blinks, shakes his head, and the computer registers that, too. 

Such a thorough file. Obsessive and meticulous. The whole of Clark is spelled out clinically before him: age, height, weight, martial arts prowess, marital status (MARRIED, followed by a link to more data on LOIS LANE, NON-COMBATANT),

Clark twists his wedding ring, then rubs at his sore eyes. Lois could hit pretty hard for such a small woman. He'd keep Batman's assessment to himself. 

And at last, "ACCESS GRANTED. RESTRICTIONS LIFTED," the computer chirps in its cold, robotic voice.

Clark leans forward once the interface opens up for him to explore. Then he leans away. Hesitates. He doesn't click on anything; drops his eyes and stares at his hands; drums his fingers on the console. 

"I wish Dick had come with me," he says. 

"I WISH DICK HAD—"

"Computer, stop recording," he says quickly, and a sharp BEEP confirms the command has been received.

"What am I doing here?" he asks. The following silence stretches on, filled only with the rustle of bats above, the slight hum of electricity. "Huh. Should have let it keep recording," he says, mouth quirked up.

Then he sighs, places his hands purposefully on the console, and looks at the screen. He freezes. Whatever it was he planned to do, he doesn't.

On the desktop, placed right where he can see it, is a folder labelled FOR CLARK.

His head is in his hands suddenly, and his face is oven-hot against his palms. His elbows grind into the console as he slumps low; curls in around his middle, like he can keep it all in, stop all the things he's feeling from spilling out of him. He leaves dusty marks on his face and then tears streak through them.

"Dammit, Bruce," he whispers.

"Pull yourself together," Batman would say. So Clark exhales, wipes his face. He pulls himself together.

What else can he do?

He opens the folder, and it takes as much effort as toppling Doomsday, wrestling with Metallo. Just a tiny movement, clicking a mouse. Nothing at all. Everything. 

Today, it is everything.

Inside the folder, there is a single recording labeled Log #06.30.1938. Clark takes a deep breath, one so deep his eyes close and his lungs feel like they might just burst and take his heart with them. There's a catch in his voice when he exhales.

His hand is shaking, but he opens the file.

Bruce is grey and stooped, made of caverns of creases and dark spots. He is thin fingers and dry lips. Yellowed eyes and drooping skin. The shock of seeing him again makes Clark gasp.

"Log oh-six-point-three-oh-point-one-nine-three-eight," the recording of Bruce begins. It had been filmed in the Cave, right in the chair where Clark sits, but the dark chair in the recording is clean, only somewhat worn. 

There is a long pause, Bruce gathering his words, shifting just slightly. 

"Clark," he says at last, his voice like aged leather and smoke. "I hate goodbyes. I think you must, too. They're messy." 

Clark smiles. "They are," he agrees, and it's easy to talk to this recording. Somehow, Bruce's words are like the continuation of a conversation they'd started and never finished — one stretched out over decades of conflicts and partnerships. Bruce and Clark, hunched over a microscope, asking questions, disagreeing. Batman and Superman, putting the plan into action, making it work in the end.

"But this is one goodbye you've earned," Bruce says. "Things I should have said. I tried my best with the rest of my...family. To make things right. But you...I was a coward. I'll fix my mistake now. With this. Even if it's too late."

"It's not, Bruce," Clark says. He's choking on this, trying to swallow, trying to breathe. "It's not too late."

Bruce looks away, and Clark looks too, as if he can see what Bruce must have seen in the distant shadows of the Cave. But there is nothing there. Vast darkness. Silence.

Bruce turns back, coughs a dry, ugly cough, and continues, "When you came back, the world rejoiced. The entire world. You brought hope with you. Not just to Metropolis. The  _ world,  _ Clark _. _ I've never seen one man be such a beacon. Nothing was ever the same. My mission...changed. My beliefs. 

"I had lived in the shadows. I thought I had to become darkness to stop darkness. You proved to me that the only thing that can stop darkness is light. The light you have. And suddenly, I saw a day when Gotham would no longer need me."

More coughs rack his body, and his yellow eyes water. He wipes at his mouth, labors to speak. 

"I saw it clear as day: a world where the criminals have no chance to hide in shadows because there is light everywhere.  _ Hope _ everywhere. And instead of fighting against that truth, instead of clinging to relevance, I let go. I embraced that vision of the world I saw. It's you, Clark. It's Superman. Superman can give us a future filled with opportunity. Safety. Fairness and beauty."

"Not alone," Clark says, his voice twisted by growing panic, lingering pain. "Not by myself."

"I need you to hear this because your belief has to be unshakable. Your belief in yourself. Gotham does not need Batman. The  _ world _ does not need Batman," Bruce says, contradicting Clark from the past. "Maybe it never did. And I'm not too proud to admit my mistake."

The "You're wrong," Clark manages is said through gritted teeth. His fists are balled, but he forces them open, and places his palms flat on the console again. He takes calming, even breaths. 

"But the world will  _ always _ need Superman," Bruce says. The words are light and airy, bright like the beacon he said Clark is.

"How can you be so wrong?" Clark asks, coming to his feet and staring down the recording. "Listen to yourself!"

But Bruce only lowers his head in thought, doesn't argue back. He lifts his head. His eyes are sharp and bright when he speaks again. "My friend, it has been an honor," he says.

The screen goes black. 

"MESSAGE COMPLETE," the computer says, sudden like a suckerpunch. The robotic voice is a harsh contrast to the tone of the message from Bruce that Clark had just heard. So stark the difference, it is like walking away from a fire into a blizzard. 

He sits again, covers his eyes; stares at the darkness behind his hand. There are shadows everywhere, but not the one he came to the Cave looking for. All he got was a recording, one that told him falsehoods.

"The world needed Batman," Clark says aloud, voice wet and low. "I needed Batman."

Inactivity is making his skin crawl, his jaw ache. 

He could smash the whole computer to silence all the lies Bruce had convinced himself were truths. He could go deeper into the Cave, find the suits lined up like chessmen in their glass cases and he could smash them, too. Tear the armor to shreds, rip away the proof of a family with no leader, a body with no head.

He imagines gripping the edge of the giant penny, toppling it and then shouting the roof down so the air filled with bats, shrieking and swarming and clouding his vision so he didn't have to see all the places Bruce wasn't.

Instead, he clicks the icon again.

"Clark," Bruce says. "I hate goodbyes. I think you must, too. They're messy." 

"Goodbyes hurt," Clark says.

Bruce rasps, "I tried my best with the rest of my...family. To make things right. But you...I was a coward."

And Clark's voice breaks as he says, "Family."

He watches the recording through ten times. 

It's Dick who comes to get him.

"Hey," Dick says. "Lois is looking for you." His eyes dart to the screen where his dad is saying, "You proved to me that the only thing that can stop darkness is light. The light you have. And suddenly, I saw a day when Gotham would no longer need me."

Clark hits pause and turns to face Dick. It's hardly strange to see him in black from head to toe, but the image shakes Clark just the same. The gravity of the day.

"Thanks," Clark says. He stands wearily, drags himself up by the tension in his neck.

"Your jacket," Dick says, waving at the floor by the chair.

"I'll...come back for it," Clark says. It's not a lie necessarily. 

"Okay. Sure," says Dick, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been a long day."

"It has."

They walk together in silence, but Clark stops halfway up the stairs to the clock, catches Dick by the shoulders. 

"You know that you make a difference, right? You know that you make the world better? Say you do.  _ Please." _ He's staring down at Dick, begging him with his eyes.

Dick covers one of his hands with his own, gives Clark a sad impression of his usual smile.

"Clark, he loved you, too," is all he says. Then he pats his hand affectionately, and goes into the mansion.

And Clark is crying again by the time he makes it up the stairs, and it's Lois who holds him, strokes his hair. Hers is silver, but her eyes still sparkle.

"Shh," she coos. Will he ever run out of tears? Or will he always see this wavering view, everyday without Bruce marked by the distortion? He buries himself against Lois' neck, hides from everything.

"He left a message," Clark says, wiping at his eyes with the handkerchief Lois gives him.

"May I see it? Would you show me?" Lois asks. 

He nods, takes her hand, and leads her carefully down into the Cave.

"I miss him," he says, and Lois squeezes his hand as hard as she can.

"I know," she says. 

**Author's Note:**

> So if you squint, this could be a prequel to "Ghosts." OR, horrifically, this could be read as a prequel to "Porridge." However, I promise you, this story is neither of those things. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
